The traitor, p.19
The Traitor, page 19
I straightened, sparing a glance for the dead whoremaster who had unwittingly saved my life. “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing for them to follow as I started off at a steady run. “We collect the horses, then we’re gone from this city.”
“The princess’s answer?” Juhlina said, falling in at my side.
“I think she just gave it. She might not have had a hand in this, but she surely knew about it. Our welcome in this city has been worn through.”
“So, it’s war then.”
I huffed out a laugh, uncoloured by any vestige of humour. “It was always going to be war.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We waited two full days for Eamond and Ayin to appear at the crossroads, but the junction remained conspicuously empty of all travellers. I hoped there might at least be some carts and passing traders willing to share gossip and rumour, but even this was denied me.
“It’s likely the princess has closed the city,” Quintrell said. “Your sudden absence would not have gone unnoticed, my lord.”
I saw wisdom in his reasoning. Our departure via one of the minor southern gates in the city walls had barely raised the heads of its two bored-looking guards. Either Leannor had expected to receive news of my death or, in the event I survived, didn’t think I would run just yet, her answer for the Anointed Lady being so important. It was a reminder that the princess regent was clever but also possessed an excess of confidence in her own machinations.
“They’re young but they’re smart,” the Widow told me as we sat at the fire on the second night at the crossroads. “If there’s a way out, they’ll find it.”
“I shouldn’t have sent them,” I said. Worries over Ayin’s behaviour had dogged me since I sent her and Eamond on their mission. The more I dwelt upon it, and her past misdeeds, the more foolish an enterprise it seemed. Send a fanatic and a mad girl to act as spies. Days and nights traipsing around the worst corners of Couravel, no doubt full of unkind words and grasping hands. Could Ayin’s repressed but, I suspected, dormant urges resist all such temptation?
“Time is our enemy, my lord,” Quintrell said. He wore a grimace of sympathetic reluctance, but still managed to pique my anger. “The princess regent will be drawing her plans, summoning her retainers…”
“I know,” I snapped, tone sufficiently harsh to silence the minstrel, the Widow and Adlar who up until now had been humming a tune and juggling his knives. Sighing, I tossed a twig into the fire. “One more day…”
As was her wont, Lilat appeared out of the darkness without any warning. Somehow, she had imbued her pony with the same stealthiness. She had led it through the Scout Company pickets unnoticed, hooves barely making a sound on the grass. The others all started, Adlar readying a knife for a throw and the Widow reaching for her warhammer. Quintrell, a fine spy but no warrior, dropped to all fours and scurried to the far side of the fire. Lilat ignored them and strode to my side, features grim. “Soldiers,” she said. “Came from the east, met with more from the city, then headed north. A man we know led them.”
“The big man? Lord Ehlbert?”
She shook her head. “The man we met on the death walk north. The one who looked like the woman who talks.”
Altheric Courlain. Lord Marshal of the King’s Host, and Evadine’s father. I had always wondered if, when the time came, he would be willing to put duty before family. Now I had an answer. “How many?” I asked, getting to my feet.
Lilat replied with the sour frown that appeared whenever she was called upon to reckon large numbers. “Many,” she repeated with an impatient shrug.
“It appears the princess already had a plan in mind.” I moved to the horses, hefting Blackfoot’s saddle. “Mount up. We ride for Athiltor.”
“In the dark?” Quintrell said.
“Rest assured, Master Minstrel, if your horse stumbles and you end up breaking your neck, I shall mourn for you. Perhaps for as much as an hour. Maybe two.”
We maintained a slow trot along the northern road until dawn, whereupon I ordered the company to a steady canter. I had to resist the temptation to spur to a full gallop, knowing it would leave us with exhausted mounts by nightfall and it was a long trek to Athiltor. I also opted for the most direct route to the holy city, even though it risked crossing the line of Sir Altheric’s march. I entertained a faint hope that we might move fast enough to get ahead of the lord marshal, given the time Lilat had taken to find us, but knew it much more likely Altheric had at least a day’s lead. However, this afforded the chance to properly gauge his numbers.
“I reckon it as a thousand horse,” Tiler said. He crouched at the edge of the road, fingers exploring the many hoof and footprints marring the verge. Tiler did not possess the skills of the late and much missed Fletchman, lost on a mountainside to a treacherous cur the previous winter, but his tracking ability was still superior to mine. “The tracks don’t tell you much as regards numbers, but all the dung they left behind does.” His hand outlined a deep print in the earth. “Heavy cavalry, too. No sign of foot.”
“A strong force,” the Widow commented. “But not the entire strength of the Crown Host. And why march on Athiltor without infantry?”
“Unless they’re not going to Athiltor,” I said. “The road forks a dozen miles on. We’ll find an answer there.”
We reached the fork in the road the following morning after a much needed but frustrating overnight rest. The wealth of horse dung on the eastward fork told the tale clearly. I didn’t need a tracker’s eye to see that Lord Altheric had led his command away from Athiltor. Tiler also advised that they had increased their pace.
“The lord marshal has somewhere to be,” I concluded. “Somewhere he has to reach by a certain day.”
“This road has several branches,” Quintrell pointed out. “They could be headed anywhere in northern Alberis.”
“It’s also the principal route to Althiene.”
“Why would they be heading there?”
I recalled the letter Leannor had shown me in her tower room, the untidy, obsequious hand of the proxy governor of Althiene. Your humble and loyal servant, Lord Archel Shelvane. “Because they were invited.” I kicked my heels, sending Blackfoot into a gallop and calling out to the whole company. “Our Lady is in danger! We ride hard from here on!”
We came to Stonebridge two days later. It was an obvious destination, being the only crossing point offering easy passage into Althiene for a large number of horsemen, the others consisting of ferries or rickety wooden bridges barely worthy of the name. Our ride had been hard on both riders and horses, even sturdy Blackfoot plodding with a lowered head, fatigued by another bout of galloping during the dwindling hours of daylight. The bridge and the village that surrounded it were concealed from view by a tall, wooded hill. Cresting it, I saw the bridge brightly lit, torches flickering along its granite span to illuminate the banner rising from its centre, the long-tusked boar of House Shelvane fluttering in the breeze. The torchlight cast a wavering glow over a full company of ducal cavalry arrayed on the far side of the bridge, the halberds of another two companies of infantry glittering to their left and right. Approaching the southern end of the bridge was a far smaller group of riders clad in the dark colours favoured by the Covenant Host. Evadine tended to eschew banners and other frippery, but I had little difficulty in picking out her tall form riding at the head of this party.
Answered a call to parley from the Pig of the North, I concluded amid a sudden welter of self-reproach. Because I wasn’t there to counsel against it, and I told her he could be bought.
At first, I felt the plummeting gut that comes with arriving too late to avert catastrophe. But then my eyes discerned the shifting mass of shadows south of the village; Lord Altheric’s host moving to close the trap, but doing so at a walk rather than a gallop. Had I been in the Lord Marshal’s place I would have done two things he had not. Firstly, I would have placed a rearguard atop this hill. Secondly, I would have ordered a full-tilt charge to the village regardless of the dangers of galloping over ground in the dark. It seemed to me that, as a commander, Evadine’s father was a curious mix of overconfidence and caution.
Or, I pondered, he hopes to form a cordon around his daughter and beseech her to surrender without battle. In any case, this lack of urgency at the critical moment gave me an opportunity I wasn’t about to squander.
“Our Lady is in dire peril and needs warning!” I called out to the company. “Strike out to the west for a short way, then ride for the bridge with all haste. The kingsmen may try to stop us. Don’t delay yourselves by fighting or helping fallen comrades. Warning the Lady is your sole object!”
I paused to stroke a regretful hand over Blackfoot’s drooping neck. He tossed his head and cast a baleful eye over his shoulder. “Sorry, my snobbish friend,” I said, before kicking my heels hard into his flanks.
Despite his tiredness, Blackfoot spurred down the slope and on to the field below with impressive speed. The Scout Company followed without hesitation, many hooves drumming the earth to a volume I knew Lord Altheric and his kingsmen wouldn’t mistake for thunder. I guided Blackfoot towards the west for a count of twenty, then tugged the reins to point his head at the village and its brightly lit bridge. This manoeuvre created a gap betwixt ourselves and the Crown cavalry, but I doubted it would be wide enough to render us immune from attack. It couldn’t be helped. With the trap about to be sprung, my prime concern had to be getting Evadine clear regardless of the cost.
We covered little over half the distance to the village when I heard the first sounds of combat, the clang and crunch of colliding armour and horseflesh to my rear. The tumult was soon followed by the melange of thuds and whinnies that told of a fallen horse and rider. I closed my ears to it and forced Blackfoot to a faster pace. Lord Altheric was now faced with the unpalatable choice of continuing his slow advance or ordering a pell-mell assault. I gambled that his love for his daughter, if such sentiment remained in his heart, would make him opt for the former, or at least expend some precious moments in anguished dithering.
The sounds of clashing horses faded as we reached Stonebridge village, a quick backward glance revealing most of the company still following. The confines of the village forced me to slow Blackfoot to a trot. I expected to force my way through a gaggle or two of gawping villagers, but the narrow streets and yards remained curiously empty. Perhaps the folk here had the good sense to seclude themselves when large numbers of soldiers appear out of the dark.
Emerging on to the broad thoroughfare leading to the bridge, I exhaled in relief at finding Evadine and her party paused. She hadn’t yet started Ulstan along the shallow arch. Instead, she sat and regarded my approach with a curious frown rather than alarm. The twin Rhianvelan Supplicants were reined in on either side of her, their faces exhibiting poorly restrained resentment.
“Alwyn?” Evadine asked in bemusement as I brought Blackfoot to an untidy halt.
“My lady,” I said, dragging in a series of ragged breaths before forcing the words out. “We must ride from this place!” I pointed to the darkened fields south of the village. “You are betrayed. Lord Altheric comes…”
“Leannor sent my father?” The puzzlement on Evadine’s face shifted into anger and she muttered, “Spiteful bitch.”
“We have no time!” I nudged Blackfoot closer and reached for Evadine’s reins. “We must go…”
“Dear Alwyn.” Evadine took hold of my hand, her own clad in a gauntlet. It occurred to me that she and the rest of her party were fully armoured, not the attire one would wear to a parley. “Worry not.” She patted my hand and gently disentangled it from her reins. “Still, it warms my heart that you came so swiftly to my rescue.”
“They’re here, my lady,” Harldin, said. The Rhianvelian Supplicant and his sister drew their swords in an uncanny display of synchronicity, placing their mounts between Evadine and the village. From the sudden tumult of thundering hooves, it seemed Lord Altheric had finally decided to abandon his caution. The mounted kingsmen soon appeared, their tall, heavy warhorses shattering fences and raising squawks and squeals from livestock.
“Guard our Lady!” I called to the Scout Company, drawing my sword. They wheeled their horses about, forming a thin line, readying weapons to receive the charge. My scouts were lightly armoured and I doubted they could withstand a concentrated assault by knights and men-at-arms in full plate. We could only hope to delay them long enough for Evadine to get clear. Casting a desperate glance at her, I saw that she remained as free of alarm as before, watching the oncoming kingsmen with a brow drawn in sadness.
An eruption of challenging cries from the onrushing kingsmen drew my gaze back to the village. About half thronged the narrow streets with the remainder choking the thoroughfare to the bridge. Their numbers worked against them in such confines, slowing their charge to an untidy, cramped trot. It made them an easy target for the dozens of crossbowmen and archers now streaming from the surrounding cottages.
Bolts and arrows loosed at such close range are capable of piercing all but the best plate, while also tearing through the quilts that covered the flanks of the kingsmens’ warhorses. Dozens of both fell screaming at the first volley, their already slowed advance immediately transforming into a chaotic shambles. The crossbowmen and archers hurried to climb on to the rooftops, better to aim their projectiles at the seething mass of horsemen. As they did so, yet more soldiers emerged from the cottages. I was quick to recognise them as veterans of the Covenant Host, moving with disciplined efficiency to form squads before hurling themselves at the Crown soldiers. Halberds stabbed and hacked in a controlled but lethal frenzy, sending even more kingsmen and their horses flailing to the ground.
Realisation dawned as I watched the unfolding carnage. A trap had been set here, to be sure. But not the one I had so cleverly divined.
“Poor Father,” I heard Evadine say, voice small, as if voicing an entreaty to the Martyrs. Turning, I saw her staring at the struggle in the village with abject sorrow. “At least spare him the ignominy of capture.”
“You had a vision,” I said. “You knew Shelvane intended treachery. My mission to Couravel was just a blind, something to make Leannor think you vulnerable in my absence.”
The sadness slipped from Evadine’s features, replaced by a guarded look, one I found jarring for it verged on hostile. “Yes,” she said, voice barely audible above the clamour. “I had a vision. But you were not part of it, Alwyn.”
A fresh uproar from the north end of the bridge had me wheeling Blackfoot about in alarm. There was a second jaw to this trap, after all. However, I saw no Althiene levies streaming over the span to assault our rear. Instead, the meagre torchlight played over disarrayed ranks, halberds wavering as infantrymen milled about in confusion. A new sound came echoing across the river then, easily recognised as the signature note emitted by a great collision of armour. I knew enough of battle now to gauge the progress of this clash by ear alone. After the initial clamour came the cacophony of clang and thud arising from a fierce melee. It was a short affair, quickly giving way to the collective groan of dismay voiced by soldiers facing calamitous defeat. Sounds of combat became the screams of the maimed or the dying, interspersed with the plaintive yells of those pleading for mercy.
When the cries began to fade, a figure resolved out of the shadows at the north end of the bridge, a tall man in full armour atop an impressive grey charger. A party of knights rode at his back, one bearing a banner showing a rearing red horse framed by silver trees: the sigil of the Duke of Rhianvel.
Duke Viruhlis Guhlmaine was younger than I expected, the face revealed when he removed his helm that of a man only a few years my senior. He might also have been described as handsome, had not the pallid skin, hollow cheeks and dark-ringed eyes, tinged with red, distracted from any aesthetically pleasing impression. His hair was also shorn down to a scalp that showed numerous healed cuts, as if this shearing had been done with an unskilled hand. In truth, he resembled a victim of some form of illness, if not madness given his poorly shaved head and the tendency for his recessed, reddened eyes not to blink as he talked. However, his bearing and voice were strong, vital even.
Upon traversing the bridge, he promptly dismounted from his charger, removing his helm to stare fixedly at Evadine for what felt like an unseemly interval. When she bowed and began to voice a greeting, Duke Viruhlis forestalled her by sinking to one knee, head lowered. The banner men who escorted him all followed suit.
“Know that I am yours, my lady,” the duke informed Evadine in a tone filled with grave assurance. “Know that my strength is yours. My soldiers are yours. All I have—” his head dipped a little lower “—is yours.”
Besotted, I thought, recalling Lord Jacquel’s parting words in Couravel. Even though he’s never met her. Seeing the way this pale-faced noble trembled in anticipation of the Anointed Lady’s word, I couldn’t fault the old dice-player’s judgement.
“Rise, my lord,” Evadine told him, voice warm with welcome. “And know that, on behalf of the Seraphile, I accept your service. As I behold your actions this day, I see no greater embodiment of the Martyrs’ example.”
“You…” Viruhlis darted a glance at Evadine, then quickly lowered his face once more. “You honour me beyond words, my lady.”
All this gracious exchanging of mutual admiration would have been more seemly if sounds of slaughter hadn’t continued to echo from the north bank of the river. The village had quietened now, a quick survey revealing streets littered with the bodies of slain kingsmen, gleaming armour dotted here and there with the darker forms of our own fallen. However, the unabated chorus of screams to the north told of a massacre in progress.
“With the battle won, my lady,” I said, regaining Evadine’s notice, “perhaps it’s time to end the bloodshed.”
“The blood of those who would contest the Lady’s word must be shed,” Duke Viruhlis said. “Down to the last drop, if need be.” There was no sign of trepidation in him now, his face appearing almost skull-like as he glared up at me, save for his eyes, which had a fiery look I had seen in many a true fanatic. “I have brought all the faithful of Rhianvel to her side this night. They know well the value of justice, soldier.”
